


stars in your eyes, coins in my pocket

by msmerlin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Camgirl, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hotel, MuggleAU, Oral, Sapiosexual, Sex Worker, Sex for Money, Smut, Snape is a sapiosexual, Vaginal Fingering, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, Webcams, which explains so much, who fucking knows, why do i do this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/pseuds/msmerlin
Summary: Camming was always a means to an end.She had bills to pay, no family to help her through the unpredictability of her twenties and well… Sex sells, right?or the one in which Hermione agrees to one night with a fan.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 137
Kudos: 662
Collections: Good Girl Hermione, Sevmione Society Writing Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LumosLyra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosLyra/gifts).



> Warning: This whole fic is NSFW

A solo web entrepreneur.

That's the official title on her resume. It sounds a hell of a lot better than camgirl, doesn't it?

She never thought she'd end up in this position, though to be fair, it wasn't exactly like little girls dreamed of growing up and hosting livestream videos of them doing things that most people kept behind closed doors.

Camming was always a means to an end.

She had bills to pay, no family to help her through the unpredictability of her twenties and well… Sex sells, right?

She never considered herself a looker. In secondary school, she never had anyone look at her twice. She couldn't really blame them though, not when she hid her frizzy hair and braces behind textbooks.

It was a defense mechanism. If she made herself as undesirable as possible, then she wouldn't have to deal with having her heart broken.

And now?

Well, now she didn't worry about trivial things like dating or—God forbid— _love._ She might have grown into her looks and had the metal removed from her smile, but those walls were still standing tall.

"Aw thank you DragonFire72." The laugh that bubbled up her throat was forced, tinny and bitter, but the viewers never knew the difference. She was good at what she did. A proclaimed 'rising star' in the cam world—like that was some sort of badge of honour instead of a sad fact. "You look pretty handsome, too. I've always had a thing for boys with red hair."

Heat straightened hair was pushed over her shoulder, exposing the sheer black bralette that left little to the imagination. It was far from comfortable; the flimsy material did absolutely little in the way of support, but she knew what they wanted, why they signed on to watch her.

She pushed her MacBook to the foot of her bed before tilting the screen back so the image could capture her whole torso as she rose up to a tall kneel. "I'm only 50 tokens shy of my first goal tonight—" Hands ran over her stomach, fingers pressing into the softness that padded her middle.

Chubby.

That's what the site plugged her under. She was a UK size 12, hardly overweight, but apparently unless she was rail thin with ribs protruding, she was deemed chubby. She was offended for half a second, but the need to demand change and rethink the way they're objectifying women by labeling them based on their weight died on her tongue when the first deposit hit her bank account.

One thousand pounds for a single show.

When this all began six months ago a thousand pounds was a lot of money, especially for just sitting on camera while talking to men topless. Camming was easy. She didn't have to bus tables, or chase snot nosed brats through the city as a nanny. She only spent two hours on a webcam and voila! Her bills were paid.

Ever practical, she gave herself a time limit.

One year.

One year of exposing herself on the internet for the pleasure of strangers and she'd be done. This was only temporary—just enough to pay her bills, and leave her with a nest egg that would help her pay down her student loan debt.

But, now that she officially hit that halfway mark, and she'd found her niche (see: nerdy brunette librarian kink), well… It was hard to imagine stopping.

Money was good— _really good—_ and… Well, frankly the attention was nice.

Most of the time.

Her eyes flicked to the corner of her screen, watching as the viewership numbers increased. Each time the number upticked, it made her pulse race just a little faster. More viewers meant her stream was bumped higher up the landing page. And viewers? They meant more money.

Her chatbox crawled—no, sprinted along. Messages from viewers—begging her to show them her breasts, asking her to blow them a kiss, or take off her knickers—flashed between indications of receiving tips.

Tips—like this was some great service she was providing as opposed to taking off her clothes and flashing her fanny for money. The term probably helped those lonely men and women who watched her sleep better at night. They were tipping her after all, not paying for nude videos. Just tips.

That's probably why ChaturXXX developed the system they did.

People bought tokens, and tokens were how they _tipped_ their performer.

The conversion from pound to token and token back to pound wasn't equal, not that she really expected it to be, but that fifty percent ChaturXXX skimmed off the top was pretty rough.

100 tokens cost the viewer ten pounds, but 100 tokens only put five pounds into her account, which meant each token earned was only worth five pence.

Five- _fucking_ -pence.

She tried not to think about that terrible exchange often, especially when she knew how much people spent on this bloody site.

Forcing her smile wider, Hermione hummed as she ran her fingers over her breasts. Her thumbs swept across her taut nipples before she slowly hooked them into the top of the bralette and began to tug it down, exposing more and more of her sun kissed skin for the camera.

"I have so many fun rewards tonight! I can't wait to see what you—"

Hermione's computer dinged before she could finish presenting her breasts to her loyal viewers. Her entire screen was purple with four white, flashing words:

**Solo Reward Payment Received.**

"Oh _fucking_ hell."

Her hands dropped to snatch the laptop, tugging it into her lap as she fell back on the mountain of pillows.

Solo Reward. It was a mandatory reward setting that ChaturXXX implemented two months prior. In theory, it was good. It could allow for a performer to hit their goal in a single session.

She'd set hers high—20,000 tokens—hoping no one was daft (see: desperate) enough to pay it.

She was wrong.

So very, _very_ wrong.

Hermione chewed on her thumbnail as she waited for the session to load, the little spinning rainbow wheel of death whizzing in the center of her screen. But she didn't need the damn internet to fix itself to know precisely who was awaiting her on the other side of the screen.

It was always the same man.

Sapiophile60.

Obviously, she didn't know his real name, and there was no bloody way she was going to ask, but she'd grown so accustomed to seeing his screen name across that she'd started referring to him as 'Sape' in her own mind.

The image burst to life, and the bright white glow of the chatbox was replaced with a darkened room. Sape sat at his desk, as he always did, chin-length black hair framing his ever stoic face. Behind him, she could make out bookshelves, positively overflowing with texts, and the occasion trinket.

Today he was in a button-down, black—as always—with the top buttons open, revealing just the hint of coarse black hair that lay hidden beneath. He looked tired, exhausted from a day of doing God knows what, and while the human side of her wanted to ask if he was okay, the logical side of her knew it didn't matter.

They weren't friends and he didn't buy her time for her to get personal with him.

No.

He wanted to see her naked.

He wanted the naughty librarian Emma Lizbeth to do what she did best.

The corners of her mouth quirked up in the flash of a smile and she wiggled her fingers at him, thumb still resting against her lips. "You know Sape, we really ought to stop meeting like this."

"Nail biting is a terribly nasty habit, Ms. Lizbeth." His words were spoken like strands of silk. Smooth and low, even through the tinny speaker on her MacBook, the rumble of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. He lifted a cigarette from a small porcelain ashtray, the red embers growing bright as he took a slow, methodical drag, dark eyes already flicking across her body.

She dropped her hand, picking at her thumbnail as she fought back the urge to roll her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she mumbled her retort as she exhaled. "Oh hello pot, have you met my friend kettle?"

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Her performer's smile fell into place and she squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. Tokens. This wasn't about him, or her, nor making friends. It wasn't about anything beyond tokens. As much as she was annoyed that he cut her show short—and thus her chances as making even more money—there were far worse people that could want to monopolise her time.

Like that foot guy Luna told her about last week.

Or the man with the baby fetish Seamus mentioned.

No, Sape wasn't anywhere near _that_ bad, but he did have one very specific request.

"The usual tonight?" Her head cocked to the side, and wisps of the pin-straight locks drifted to frame her face. He moved with such finesse, slow, deliberate moments that mesmerized her.

It was his hands, specifically his fingers.

Long and lean, his fingers looked like they belonged to a pianist. Even through the grainy computer screen, and his poor lighting, she could make out the dexterity in his long digits. Simple actions—like holding his cigarette, or picking up a glass to sip water, or even the way he'd hold his chin as he watched her perform for him—looked damn near indecent.

He hummed around his cigarette, slowly nodding his head before he withdrew his cigarette and casually ashed it. Those long fingers teased her desire, dancing along the edge of the camera, popping in and out of frame.

She swept her tongue across her lips, gathering her wits and forcing the wayward thoughts about the mystery man who'd bought her time for the past two months into the back of her mind.

Lifting her laptop, she set it on the small tray table that laid just out of frame on her bed, careful to position the MacBook so he could have the proper angle before she began to remove her bralette.

"You know, if you were interested in private shows—" She pushed the straps down her shoulders, letting the flimsy material bunch atop her breasts as she pulled her arms free before shimmying it down her middle.

She could hear his sharp intake of breath, one of the only indications he enjoyed her body—if she didn't count the thousands of tokens he'd sent to her account. And while it shouldn't make her feel anything—this _was_ her job, after all, and he _was_ a paying client—she couldn't contain the small swell of pride.

She'd just begun to settle back against the pillows, adjusting her spine to the softness, when he spoke, pulling her from the routine she'd found with him.

"Come close to the camera."

Brown eyes flickered up, her brow furrowed at his request. "Uh… What?" It wasn't that his request was odd, but they'd done this song and dance three times a week for nearly sixty days now and he'd never once asked to change a single detail.

"Come close to the camera." His free hand lifted from the table and he crooked one lean finger at her, thin lips curling ever so slightly in an almost predatory smirk. "I'd like you to present your breasts to me tonight before we begin."

Present… her… breasts?

Instinctively, her eyes dropped to her chest and she gulped. She wasn't uncomfortable with the thought, clearly, but there was something very intimate about his request. She always shot her videos from far away, as if the distance helped smooth out her features so her blemishes weren't so apparent on screen.

"I'm not sure how to—"

"I'll walk you through it."

_Of course he would._

Her fingers flexed against the bedding, head lost in contemplation. It was stupid, to get stuck on something as trivial as moving the laptop closer. Especially since she already had his money. If she moved closer, and he could make out the softness of her middle, or the faded iridescent stretch marks that adorned her breasts, well… It didn't really matter. Did it?

Did it?

"I'm waiting…"

"Oh, right. Sorry!" She scurried up on her knees, edging closer to the MacBook before settling back on her feet when the tray table sat just in front of her thighs. Her hands fell in her lap, nervously pressing against the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs. "So… Do I just…?"

"Cup your breasts from underneath. Gently knead them." He put his cigarette in the ashtray, a slow spiral of smoke curling from the end as he steepled his fingers together just below his chin.

She did as instructed, hands lifting her breasts just slightly into the camera's viewfinder before she began to knead them.

"That's it. Now pluck your nipples. Not too hard, but just enough to— _ahh…_ Yes, good girl."

The praise did funny things to her. She was a smart woman, and sane most of the time, but _that_ particular phrase? Well, even though she was acting, she would never be able to stop the way it made her cheeks crimson. And the way _he_ said it? God help her.

"Do you like giving your breasts attention? Do you enjoy having your breasts played with when you fuck?"

What a loaded question. When she fucked? She couldn't even remember the last time someone had graced her bedroom. Getting naked on a webcam and showing her body off to strangers wasn't exactly innocent, but she definitely didn't have some sort of wild sex life outside of her job.

He didn't want to hear that though.

No, they all wanted the same thing: A horny little sex kitten who _begged_ for their attention.

"Hmmm… Yes." She arched into the camera, making sure her face wasn't in view for him to see the lie on her tongue. "I love it."

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, chewing thoughtfully on the corner, as her mind drifted to thoughts of what she _did_ like in the bedroom. Truthfully, she didn't even know anymore. It had been ages and it wasn't like her last few experiences left her with much to work with.

Ron had been her first—kind, sweet Ron. Her childhood boyfriend was an absolute dream but horrendous in the sack. Though, she couldn't expect much when they were each other's firsts. Still, he tried and that was more than most teenagers could ask for.

Then there was Cormac. Fit, massive cock but an absolute fucking knob. He couldn't find her clit from her asshole most of the time.

Cedric, and Theo followed, in that particular order, and neither one of them left her with a memorable experience. Though, they both had managed to get her to climax, so at least that was an improvement from her previous lovers.

Still, she had yet to find someone who checked all her boxes.

Not that it really mattered now. It wasn't like she was dating anytime soon.

Most men weren't exactly keen on the idea of their girlfriends preforming sex work, and well… The money was _really_ good.

"Undress the rest of the way."

The silken baritone pulled her back to reality and Hermione looked back at the screen. Sape had returned to smoking his cigarette, the same passive look masking his features.

Scooting back on the bed just so, Hermione shimmied out of her knickers, letting them drop off camera. They would be tomorrow's problem, for now she was working and couldn't focus on something as trivial as finding her hamper. Finally, she did what she knew he was expecting.

With her thighs spread, she let her lower half come into focus as she fell back amongst the pillows, hand slipping between her legs to gently part herself.

Sape's eyes darkened, and she watched his nostrils flare as he took a heavy drag from his nearly finished cigarette. "Such a pretty little cunt."

She fought back the urge to roll her eyes, opting to let the need for exasperation come out in the form of a forced, bashful laugh. That's what men liked, right? Coyness—or, at least, the perception of it. "Thank you."

"Are you wet?"

 _Of course she wasn't._ But he didn't need to know that—this was all an illusion. A lie.

"Soaked."

He didn't press, which felt strange, as he usually made her show him. Tonight, it seemed, he was more eager to get to what she was beginning to suspect was his _real_ kink. Not that he minded seeing her body, clearly, but based on his screen name, she had deduced his carnal interests were far from surface level.

"Get the book." He snuffed out his cigarette, long fingers jamming it roughly into the ashtray before he picked up a glass just off screen and took a large sip of what she assumed was water.

The first time he'd requested this, she'd thought it was odd.

He'd just paid 20,000 tokens for her time and all he wanted was _this?_

But now that this little game had gone on for nearly two months, she found herself almost at ease with the routine. Perhaps a tiny part of her might have even enjoyed it—though she'd never admit that.

Reaching over to her nightstand, she grabbed the well-worn book and shifted up on the bed, pressing her thighs together to rest the book against them as she bent her legs at the knee.

An old ribbon held her place, frayed at the ends, and she let the fuzzy tassels trail across her fingertips as she opened the book to their last spot. She cleared her throat in an attempt to find her voice before she began.

"Letter 125. Viscount De Valmont to Marchioness De Metreuil. At last this haughty woman is conquered, who dared think she could resist me.—She is mine—totally mine.—She has nothing left to grant since yesterday. My happiness is so great I cannot appreciate it, but am astonished at the unknown charm I feel:—Is it possible virtue can augment a woman's value even at the time of her weakness?..."

* * *

Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos would not have been her first choice—hell, it wouldn't have even been her second or third. Personally, she didn't find love in 17th century literature, but she understood it was the foundation upon which many of the great poets of that time learned.

Though, she would argue Choderlos de Laclos was far from a poet, but rather a horny old Frenchman.

Still, Sape seemed to have put great effort into selecting this particular book. He even went as far as to pay her an extra fifty pounds to get a copy despite the damn thing only costing her four pounds at her local second-hand store.

They were nearly finished with the book now, perhaps only three or so more sessions and she would find the end. She couldn't help but wonder what he'd picked next… or if there would even _be_ a next book.

Maybe she could suggest something a little more modern—something from the 20th century at the very least.

"Well, thank you for the good time." She yanked a worn tank top over her head, tugging it into place before she began to pull up her hair in a messy bun. She wouldn't go back on camera after the session, peak hours had just passed, so there was no pretense in remaining put together.

No, now was time for sweats, a stained tank top, and that bag of Cheeto Puffs that sat half eaten on her countertop. And tea. She could really go for a cuppa Yorkshire Gold right about—

"Have you considered my offer?"

Her eyes snapped back to the MacBook, the sharp siren of an alarm bell ringing in her mind. His offer had been laid in her lap for nearly a week now. To meet in person—to spend a single night in his company for five thousand pounds.

It was tempting.

Really fucking tempting.

While she didn't _need_ the money, it _would_ help her pad her accounts. It wasn't like he asked her to do anything over the top, just get naked and read. How bad could it really be?

There were, however, two glaring things her mind seemed unable to move past.

One: she wasn't a prostitute. Yes, she got naked on a webcam. Yes, she worked in the sex industry, but she wasn't _having_ sex with people.

Two: the horror stories. Countless tales of camgirls meeting up with men, seeing them in person for extra cash, and disappearing—like 'face on the side of a milk carton' kind of disappearing.

She didn't want to be another statistic.

"Ehh, yeah. About that…" Her hands shimmied the small pair of sweatshorts up her hips, eyes dropping from the screen to watch her fingers tie the string into a small bow to hold them in place. "I'm still considering it."

She heard a hum, low and slow, and she knew it wasn't exactly disapproval, but rather disappointment.

A strange ripple of nervousness shot through her and she bit her tongue, nose wrinkling as she tried to make sense of her own emotions.

She shouldn't care about his feelings. She shouldn't give two shits about what he thought, but after two months of acting as though she did, there was some sick part of her that felt connected to him.

Sape leaned back in his chair, the soft creak of the spring giving away his movement, and she looked up in time to watch him clasp his chin, index finger stroking the length of his jaw. "I'll need an answer by Thursday."

That look in his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, cut straight to her core and her stomach clenched in a foriegn need. "Okay. You'll have one soon." She didn't wait for a response. Instead, she reached out and shut the MacBook.

Her teeth worried her bottom lip as she stared at the sticker covered surface, picking at her cuticle.

She should tell him no.

She shouldn't even fucking humour the idea, but…

The more the offer played in her mind, the more she saw him on the other side of her screen, the more she wondered what would happen if she accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi. how's it going? yep, just me here writing another fic I shouldn't. //sigh
> 
> thanks to the Sevmione Society for making a pretty to inspire this work (also, no thanks, because my muse went wild)
> 
> in this fic Hermione is the sex trade as a camgirl, clearly. i do not want to disparage sex workers, and this fic does not intend to do this at all. please no negative comments about her chosen profession and just enjoy this MuggleAU my brain cooked up. 
> 
> as always, beta love to dreamsofdramione. you can find me on facebook @ MsMerlin Eff
> 
> until next time. xx


	2. Chapter 2

The slow drizzle of rain outside was comforting.

She'd always liked the stormy weather, even as a small girl. She'd beg her parents to let her jump in the puddles in her wellies and raincoat, or dance barefoot on their back patio when the downpour lessened to a sprinkle.

She liked the way the asphalt smelt, and the sound of the droplets landing amongst the puddles. She liked the cozy feeling of wrapping up in a thick jumper and sipping a cup of tea.

It was on days like this—these dreary sort of days, where the sky never changed from gray and cloudy—that she found herself most at peace.

It had been two days since her last cam show, and as she sat, eyes flicking across her recently delivered bank statement on her computer screen, her lips couldn't help but curl into the softest smile. She was almost as her second goal—thirty thousand pounds.

Dragging two fingers across the track pad, the numbers whizzed by and distant thoughts about potentially investing some of her nest egg tickled the back of her mind. She didn't know much about stocks, but, thankfully, she had friends who did. Theo worked in banking, surely he could point her in the right direction. Blaise might also be able to assist—with all that family money, he _had_ to know a thing or two.

Of course, none of this would happen until she let that goal, which, by her calculations, she was only three weeks shy of. Unless she…

Just like that, he'd slithered his way back into her consciousness.

Dark, and oh so mysterious.

Sapiophile60.

Even now, she could close her eyes and see those dark eyes, long fingers and aquiline nose. There wasn't anything particularly handsome about him—nothing that could explain to the allure he had over it—yet here she was, already thinking of her ever-present benefactor.

Picking up the steaming mug of Yorkshire Gold, Hermione leaned back against her Ikea kitchen chair. The compressed wood shifted just slightly to accommodate her weight as she took a slow sip of the hot tea.

Unlike other patrons who frequented her chat, he had never written one disparaging remark—she'd checked her chat log history to be certain. During their private sessions, he only ever asked for her to read.

Sure, she was naked.

Sure, he'd requested she _'present her body'_ to him during their last session, but he never seemed pushy nor demanding. Hell, he'd never even exposed himself to her while she read. He just sat, smoking his cigarette, and listened to her, fascinated beyond normal interest, like he hadn't hand selected the text for her to read.

Surely there were worse men out there to request her time, and although she couldn't be certain, she could almost bet that if something _did_ make her uncomfortable—if he pushed her too far or requested something that toed the line between kinky and weird—and she requested to stop, he would comply.

He didn't seem like the type to revel in someone else's discomfort.

Then again, she didn't really know him… did she?

Anxiety warred with her impulse to agree to his offer. If this was _just_ about money, it would have been easier to decline and gracefully turn down his offer. She wouldn't want to ruin her chance for any future tokens to be deposited into her account.

But it wasn't _just_ about the money.

No.

It was also about _him._

He stirred something inside her she couldn't name. It wasn't quiet lust—perhaps intrigue? He was mysterious, breviloquent to an infuriating degree because she hung off his every word, waiting to hear just one more syllable slip off his tongue.

The fact also remained that, despite the countless screen names that fluttered through her chatbox, despite the numerous requests from men and women asking, begging her to show more of herself, to whisper filthy things as she played with her cunt for the camera, Sape was the only who stayed firmly rooted in her mind.

Against her better judgement—though, to be honest, Hermione knew her judgement wasn't spectacular even before now—she opened a new tab in Chrome and navigated to ChaturXXX.

Her fingers struck the keys with a defined snap as she typed in her password and opened her inbox.

His reply was the first in her box, opened, but not responded to, and before she could second guess herself or talk herself out of the madness that was this whole plan, she replied.

> **To: Sapiophile60  
>  From: EmmaLizabeth79**
> 
> **Subject: Re: Proposition**
> 
> **Message:**
> 
> **I'll meet you.**

Short and succinct, the message could only be interpreted one way. She knew his ever-direct personality would appreciate her approach. She hit send and the message left her inbox with a whooshing sound rattling through her shoddy computer speakers.

Almost immediately, she felt a wave of nausea clench her stomach, and she closed her eyes as a strange sensation worked its way through her body. It felt almost as if someone had poured hot water on the top of her head, the slow drips cascading lower and lower until she no longer felt the chill outside.

What had she done?

She'd always had a knack for running head first into irreversible, and frequently ill-advised, decisions, but this—agreeing to meet up with a complete fucking stranger for a hefty some of money… Well, that had to be one of her dumbest.

She didn't have to wait long. Barely two minutes after the message was sent, when she'd only just begun her mental descent into hysterics, the soft chime of a notification made her snap her eyes open.

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, worrying the soft flesh as she opened the response with shaking fingers.

> **To: EmmaLizabeth79  
>  From: Sapiophile60**
> 
> **Subject: Re: Proposition**
> 
> **Message:**
> 
> **Good girl.**
> 
> **Scarfes Bar at the Rosewood London on Friday at 6pm.**
> 
> **Wear your hair down—natural like you used to in your early shows.**
> 
> **\- SS**

* * *

The remainder of the week seemed to fly by, and although she was rather anxious about this meetup (evident by her complete and utter inability to sleep the night before), she couldn't deny the butterflies that broke free from their cocoons in her stomach every time she thought of what was to come.

She'd taken proper safety measures and provided Luna and Seamus the address of the establishment and any relevant information she had on Sapiophile60. She even allowed Seamus to track her iPhone for the evening, just in case she didn't reach out to him at their prearranged time the following day.

Though her friends didn't agree with her decision, they knew there wasn't much they could do to talk her out of meeting the mysterious Sape. Once she'd made up her mind, it was near impossible to change, and _this_ was no exception to that rule.

With her carefully laid plans in play, and pepper spray in her clutch, Hermione set out from her shabby little flat and hailed a car to what turned out to be a rather posh hotel.

Her hands curled nervously around the small black clutch, burgundy painted nails digging into the soft faux leather as her eyes drifted around the modern decorated lobby. The marble floor gleamed, its thick black and white stripes accented by the sleek, polished furniture and minimalist artwork.

She knew Sape had money. She wasn't a bloody fool, but this?

This was more than she'd expected.

The too high pair of borrowed heels snapped with each slow step, and she chewed on the inside of her cheek so as to not smear her rouged lips. She couldn't help but feel out of place, like a daisy in a garden of roses—not necessarily ugly, but certainly not the same quality of the people and things around her.

The entrance to the hotel bustled, bellhops collecting baggage, concierges checking in families, and smartly dressed couples moving through the lobby to catch cabs to God only knows where.

The tight sheath dress she'd selected from the back of her closet made her feel wholly out of place, especially when she thought about the hemline she'd had to repair this morning.

"Good evening Mademoiselle." A cheerful voice pulled Hermione's attention away from examining the room and she turned to face a young blonde whose dazzling white smile seemed to stretch a mile wide. "Welcome to the Rosewood London. Will you be checking in this evening?"

"Oh, uh…" Hermione didn't really know _how_ to answer that question. She assumed Sape had secured a room—after all, it was heavily implied that their evening would be spent doing what they normally did—technically, though, they'd never discussed it. Her brow furrowed and she scratched nervously at the side of her neck. "I'm actually meeting a… friend?"

"Wonderful." The blonde's smile seemed to grow wider, despite the flicker of judgemental curiosity that coloured her eyes as she scanned Hermione's outfit. It wasn't like her wardrobe screamed _'I'm a sex worker'_ —she'd worn this dress to her parent's bloody memorial—but apparently that outsider feeling she'd had since walking into the lobby wasn't unfounded.

No, the blonde was _definitely_ judging her. She was likely eyeing her dress' uneven hemline, or the scuffed toes of her pumps—or worse, the way her curls were haloed with a small layer of frizz that'd formed in the few minutes she'd been exposed to the outside elements _._

"If you can provide me your"—bright blue eyes flickered back up to Hermione's and the concierge's smile morphed from friendly to sharp in the blink of an eye—" _friend's_ name or room number, I can phone them and let them know you're arrived."

Hermione would never consider herself a violent person. The only time she'd ever been in a physical altercation was during year seven when Draco Malfoy wouldn't shut the hell up after Sex Ed and kept asking to see her breasts and fanny in front of his friends. Even then, she still felt bad when he clutched his reddened cheek and tears leaked from his grey eyes.

But now? Well, now violence seemed pretty fucking good.

Who the hell did this lady think she was? Judging her based on her appearance alone.

If Hermione had been wearing a sign that said 'I am meeting a guy here and we will be doing weird sexual book reading in the hotel room' _then_ she would welcome the judgement, but this? This was uncalled for!

A wave of indignation swelled within her, and Hermione straightened her spine, hands dropping casually to her sides. "Thank you"—her eyes flicked to the blonde's name tag pinned on the breast of her smart blue polyester suit—"Fluer. However, I've already phoned him. Your services might be better utilised with someone who is in need of mediocre assistance this evening. Like say… that couple other there attempting to read a map. Surely your skills are better suited for something as mundane as map reading."

Over-plucked brows rose, and pink painted lips formed a small o in surprise as Hermione flashed the bitchy concierge a less than courteous smile.

"Oh… Madamo—"

Lifting her hand, Hermione silenced the flummoxed blonde and shook her head. "Thank you, but I don't need nor want your assistance. Have a nice night." Never in her entire life had Hermione been so thankful she was wearing heels. The sharp snap against the two-tone marble floor seemed to punctuate her exit from the lobby in a way that felt almost inspired.

She felt cool, put together and, frankly, the type of grade A bitch that was splashed on the cover of movie posters, like Meryl Streep in the Devil Wears Prada. Except she was less than an hour away from flashing her cunt to some dark, mysterious webcam , absolutely not a fashion magazine executive.

The flooring morphed from stripes to small geometric patterns as she exited the lobby and moved deeper into the hotel like she knew precisely where she was going as opposed to being totally and utterly lost.

Reaching the elevator bank, Hermione chanced a glance over her shoulder, making sure no one from the front desk was following her, before she let her shoulders sag and her posture curl just a little.

With a soft huff, she looked around for any sign that might point her in the right direction. Her pace slowed to a near crawl as she very slowly moved past the elevators.

She could go right or left, and based on appearance alone, neither option gave away which was the right direction. Heaven forbid the hotel put up something like signage that might indicate where the bloody bar was.

Was properly identifying things against high society or something?

Thankfully, she didn't have to guess long.

As she lingered at the intersection, weighing her options on which way to go (because she absolutely did not feel like getting lost in three inch heels), a couple slipped past her, talking animatedly about a flaming cocktail they'd ordered at the bar the night before.

Jumping to action—and thanking whatever deity had her back—Hermione trailed behind the couple and managed to make it to the bar without rolling her ankle or looking like a complete moron (though _that_ was debatable).

The low melody of contemporary jazz hit her ears before she pushed through the heavy set of dark oak doors that hid the bar from the hallway. If she felt out of place before, now she might as well be a bloody donkey amongst prized stallions.

The bar was dimly lit, creating a clearly intended high-end ambience. High back azure leather chairs lined the bar, arranged in groups of two, and behind them she saw tables with chairs covered in red velvet. Even without the music, the entire bar screamed money.

Candles flickered on the circular tables as she slowly walked in, eyes flickering between couples talking animatedly in hushed whispers. The liquor being served was clearly meeting its intended purpose.

It took her all of ten seconds to find him, as if his presence was magnetic and she was his polar opposite.

He sat at the far end of the bar, dark and brooding, just like he was on the opposite side of the camera, but those angular features that toed the line between handsome and exaggerated seemed so much more appealing in person.

Shadows no longer elongated his nose or darkened the bags under his eyes, the candle light seemed to highlight the sharpness in the most attractive way possible. From her distance, she could make out the soft layer of stubble on his cheeks, razor thin, probably just a day's growth. She should have found it odd that he didn't prepare for this… this _date_ —if she could even call it that. Then again, he _was_ paying for her services so he didn't really need to try, did he?

His eyes were downcast, dark pools staring at the rich, caramel liquor that filled the base of a whiskey snifter in front of him. Long fingers drummed against the bartop, slow and deliberate, enticing her from across the room.

The anxiety she'd forced down all day, with heavy doses of caffeine and distraction, began to bubble up once more.

Her steps slowed to a crawl before she froze halfway across the room, pausing beside an empty set of chairs. She watched him curiously, teeth sinking into her bottom lip despite telling herself ten times over not to ruin her makeup.

She stood there for what felt like minutes, watching him in silence, trying to assess his character from afar. He didn't _seem_ like a murderer. If she knew anything from watching terrible Lifetime movies it was that murders definitely didn't agree to meet in crowded bars, nor did they book rooms in insanely expensive hotels.

They did, however, wear expensive looking suits, and based on what she could see, he met that criteria.

One out of three wasn't bad though.

And, truthfully, considering the way heat bloomed between her thighs, she was willing to overlook his one minor error.

Hermione gathered her courage and forced those horrendous butterflies down into the pit of her stomach before she continued her approach. Straightening her spine and sucking in just enough to flatten her midsection, Hermione closed in on the empty seat beside him.

"Sape?"

Dark eyes lifted to find hers, and Hermione might have momentarily forgotten how to breath. The apathy she often found awaiting her on the other side of the screen had been replaced, and those eyes—the deep pools that seemed to harbor secrets she longed to find the answers to—were so much better in person.

His head cocked to the side with a slow arch of his brow and when his eyes drifted down to survey her attire, she was suddenly embarrassed she hadn't put more effort into her appearance and bought a new dress for the occasion.

"Uh… Hi. Sorry, it's what I've been calling you… since I don't know your name." Reaching forward, Hermione laid the small black clutch on the bar in front of the empty chair before thrusting out her hand towards him. "Hi."

He looked at her hand as if it were a foriegn object and she instantly regretted such a casual approach. He'd seen her naked for christ's sake, and she'd just tried to _shake his bloody hand_ like she was a new acquaintance.

A slow pink heat crept across her cheeks and down her neck as she stood awkwardly before him. When the only response he gave was a low hum, she could feel mortification deepen her blush.

Lifting his hand from the bar, Sape gestured to the chair beside him in a slow sweep. "Take a seat Miss Lizbeth." He turned the chair, swiveling towards her until his long legs, previously hidden underneath the bar, came into view.

Brows lifted in surprise as she took in the length of his limbs, and she clambered to listen to his edic like some school girl seconds away from a scolding. The supple leather slipped beneath her thighs as she hoisted herself onto the tall barstool and hooked her heels on the small metal footrest.

"Severus."

"I'm sorry?" Her brow furrowed. She tugged at the hemline of her dress before folding her hands in her lap.

"My name is Severus." His eyes flickered across his face, as if awaiting for a laugh, or disbelief. Was it usual? Abso-fucking-lutely. But with a name like Hermione, she didn't dare judge.

Instead, she gave him a quick nod, leaning so her spine pressed against the high back of barstool. "Lovely name."

He let out a soft snort, dark eyes cutting away from her and down the bar. Lifting the nearly finished whiskey snifter, he signaled to the bartender. "Am I to assume you'd like to be called by your screen name this evening?" Dark eyes drifted back to her and she watched as he took a slow sip, polishing off the remaining liquor.

"I think it would be best." She waited for him to press, smoothing her dress against her thighs as a means to distract herself from his intense gaze. She wouldn't have blamed him if he wanted to know more—they were about to spend the night together, but she wasn't exactly comfortable exposing that part of herself to him.

Her screen name was a security blanket of sorts, a persona that she donned twice a week for the sake of tokens and a momentary ego boost. Emma Lizbeth was comfortable in her skin, saucy—even a bit of a temptress. But Hermione Granger? Hermione would certainly never humor the idea of meeting up with Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome. Not even for five thousand pounds.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the bartender approach, the white cloth tossed casually over his shoulder a stark contrast to the black oxford. "Your guest finally arrived. What can I get for you, love?"

"Just sparkling water, please." Flashing her best smile, Hermione accepted the familiar bottle of San Pellegrino from the bartender when he plucked it from a fridge underneath the cupboard.

"A refill for you, Mr. Snape?"

Severus shook his head as he pushed the snifter towards the bartender. "Not at this time."

"Shall I close the tab?"

"Unless my guest would like something else."

Hermione looked between the men, two sets of eyes imploring her. Suddenly, she felt as if she was under a microscope. Twisting the metal cap off the bottle, she brought it to her lips, taking a quick drink before she shook her head. "Just this is fine."

"Have you eaten dinner?"

The question was so ordinary that it nearly caught her off guard. The way it slipped off his tongue was easy, as if they were friends meeting for a quiet meal as opposed to this transaction based arrangement.

To the bartender, it would never appear unusual, but it felt so odd. In all their previous conversations, never once had he asked about her well-being. Why would he suddenly care now?

Her thumbnail dug into the soggy label, peeling the sticky paper away from the glass as she shook her head. "No, but—"

"What is the special tonight, Cedric?" Severus didn't so much as cast her a second glance when he cut her off, turning in the chair to face the bartender and squaring his large shoulders.

"A pistachio crusted salmon served over a wild mushroom risotto and charred root vegetables."

Hermione shifted, uncrossing her legs. She leaned forward and reached out to pull her clutch into her lap, holding it like a security blanket against her abdomen. "Severus, I am really not—"

"We'll take two of those, no root vegetables, substitute with green salads. No dressing, lemon wedges only." He was clearly intent on making sure she ate, whether she liked it or not. Sliding from the chair, his long fingers threaded the buttons in his sports coat. "Have dinner delivered in forty five minutes. The bellhop may knock and leave the cart at the door, but under no circumstances should they wait to be let in. I would prefer not to have any interruptions, so please relay these instructions as you've been given."

Cedric nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Severus, _really_ , this is not necessary." When he turned his eyes on her, Hermione knew it was going to be useless to try and argue. Admittedly, she didn't know much about this man beyond his well-explored kink, but it was clear he got his way—often. "Thank you."

He gave her a single nod, chin-length black hair drifting across his stubbled cheek. "Shall we?" His hand extended towards her, long fingers beckoning her to join him.

Nearly six weeks ago, she wondered why he'd chosen Pierre Choderlos de Laclos' only novel. Yes, _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_ was a masterpiece. When written, it was truly ahead of its time. Once considered scandalous, it's tale of aristocracy seducing the vitreous and married secondary characters was now tame compared to other literary options.

But as he stood, waiting for her to accept his hand so he might escort her up to their room for the evening, Hermione finally understood why he'd chosen that particular title.

It wasn't because he enjoyed 18th century French literature.

No. It was a warning—a cautionary tale.

He was going to be her dangerous liaison, and lord help her, she was ready to play whatever game he had planned for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at that amazing aesthetic that [dreamsofdramione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione) made me! holy shit—amirite?
> 
> speaking of which, go check out her latest fic [Simple Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23930449). a lovely, lovely little dramione.
> 
> thanks for the kudos, likes, reviews & comments. they make writing this so much fun. come find me on [facebook](https://www.facebook.com/msmerlinfanfic).
> 
> until next time. xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This Chapter is NSFW

Silence.

Hermione _hated_ silence.

From as far back as she could remember, she'd tried to fill her world with noise. Chaos: tapping her pen in the library to drown the quiet, music in her ears, and that white-noise machine on her beside constantly played some sort of ambient sounds to help her drift to sleep.

Once a therapist told her it was a coping mechanism for some deep-seated trauma. She didn't doubt it.

When silence eventually came, as it always did, a wave of anxiety would wash over her and she'd nearly drown trying to fight her way back to the surface.

But silence with Severus didn't make her feel anxious.

No, silence with Severus was oddly calming, like balm on a fresh burn. The edges stung, cruel, curling tendrils, begged to pull her under, but they never did.

No, she lingered on the edge of curiosity, toeing the line, basking silently in his presence.

He made her eat, absolutely not taking no for an answer, despite her insistence that she was not hungry. With an arched brow and thinned lips, he pressed until she finally relented. While she wasn't particularly famished, the aroma of the expertly cooked salmon was hard to ignore.

She ate in the comfort of their silence, stealing glances through thick lashes until every last morsel settled in her belly. Based on the way he leaned back in the plush chair, the corners of his mouth twitching with some sort of smug satisfaction, he was pleased with her obedience.

He didn't rush her to get her naked, instead he requested they move from the small dining area of his suite over to the sitting room.

When she agreed to this meet up, she didn't really know what to expect. Clearly there was some level of understanding he'd want to see her naked at some point, but how everything was unfolding was not the way she would've imagined.

Whether he sensed her nervousness or was just enjoying her company, the next hour was spent sitting across from one another on a posh couch sipping tea. It felt like it wasn't a precursor to whatever kinky game he intended on playing, but just two friends catching up instead.

She found out he was a doctor, which felt more than a little ironic, considering she'd watched him chainsmoke on camera over the past two months. No family to speak of. A London native. Still as terse as ever, his answers were direct and with little flare. She had to poke and prod to get any sort of in-depth answer; even then, she felt like he never told the whole truth.

She was just scratching the surface of this mysterious man, but at least now she had a basic understanding of who he was, and more importantly, what made him tick.

He valued intelligence above all else and admitted that his interest in her went beyond skin-deep.

When she'd first started camming, she lived in an older, much smaller studio flat. Her backdrop had been her bookcases, brimming with literature, both new and old, and it was her collection that had piqued his interest. Subsequently, her tits kept him coming back.

She didn't know if she should be flattered or concerned that he valued her mind, especially since she'd made getting naked in front of strangers her profession, but she found his admission comforting. It was as though the reservations she had about meeting him were unfounded because _clearly_ a psychopath wouldn't be interested in intelligence.

As the minutes ticked by, the ease of their conversation helped her drop her guard, and she found herself growing eager to find out more about him and spend time in his orbit. This pull she'd felt towards him, that slow ebb of curiosity, was only amplified the longer she spent time with him.

Once their tea had cooled and neither seemed intent on requesting a new pot, Hermione knew her time to learn about this man was coming to an end.

After all, this wasn't some sort of date.

No, this was a transaction.

He was paying for a service, and she was obligated to provide it if she wanted the five thousand pounds.

Which is how she found herself in the suite's restroom. She was far from modest, but it felt odd to undress in front of him in person, like the line between work and intimacy was parallel to the zip on the back of her too-tight dress.

Her fingers smoothed the elastic band of her knickers across her womb, checking to make sure the residual indentation wasn't too noticeable. She'd never been nervous before—getting naked on camera wasn't exactly a heart racing experience—but now she would be lying if she said there wasn't a small trickle of doubt lingering.

Her eyes drifted up to the mirror, taking one last look at the bra and knicker set she'd chosen: a sheer bralette with small black velvet hearts embedded in the fabric, and a plain set of black cotton bikini-cut briefs.

Leaning across the counter, she brushed her finger across her bottom lip, spreading a thin layer of gloss across her lips before taking a final deep breath.

Bare feet carried her out of the bathroom, and the soft snap of a bathroom door shutting cut through the silence of the room, drawing Severus' attention.

He was still on the couch, long legs spread wide, and a single arm draped over the back. His eyes left burning trails as they ran over her skin. Even from across the room, she could see the subtle flare of his nostrils and flex of his fingers.

This was what he wanted—right? This was what he'd paid for.

Sure the conversation they'd had was nice, and him feeding her was oddly chivalrous, but _this_ was why they were here and there was little use in pretending otherwise.

"I hope you don't mind… but I thought we could get started." Her voice held that same false confidence that she always displayed on camera. The steady thrum of her pulse, however, didn't match her facade.

Severus didn't utter a word, instead he leaned forward, elbows sinking onto his thighs as he steepled his fingers in front of his chin, the tips of his index finger tapping lightly against the point of his jaw as he assessed her upon her slow approach.

She felt like a cat, winding her way closer to him in the large suite, torn between timid and brave. Her tongue swept across her lips, watching his every move like he was a painting hung on a museum wall waiting to be studied instead of a man who was paying to see her naked body.

Each step amplified the war within her mind, silent and consuming, begging, hoping, praying he would find her nearly bare figure before him as enticing in person as he did through the screen.

"That is… if you were still interested." She fought back the soft warble in her voice with a well-placed smile as she came to a halt just before him, her painted toes mere inches from his shoes. Her hands moved behind her back, fingers curling around the opposite forearm, posing in a well practiced stance that flattened the softness of her middle just a bit and lifted her breasts.

He didn't utter a word, just a low hum, his eyes traveling her figure twice over. Slow and methodical, the wait was excruciating.

Did he not like what he saw?

Was he rethinking this?

Had she played her hand too early?

The spaghetti string of questions that tangled together in her mind came to a screeching halt when he reached out, his fingers hovering just over the sensitive skin on her thigh, millimeters away from touching her. "May I?"

His eyes flashed up to her, dark and intense, but in the soft light of the sitting area, she could make out their true color. They weren't simply brown, plain and bland, as she'd assumed. No, they were dark, like the richest espresso. Hidden in their depths, she could make out hints of the desire that he was so cleverly suppressing under his aloof exterior.

Her lips parted in a breathy reply as let loose a shaky exhale, the anticipation to feel his skin against hers nearly overwhelming her.

"Yes."

Those long fingers that'd plagued her mind for weeks were now on her bare skin—just the tips, brushing against the swell of her thigh, over the side of her knickers, and across the soft skin on her side.

She tampered a gasp, and focused on controlling her breath as he scooted forward, perched just on the edge of the couch as his fingertips traced the bottom band of her bralette, tickling her through the sheer material as they moved.

"Before we begin, I do think some rules should be put in order." She could feel his breath across her abdomen, hot and wicked, it curled along her body, bidding her to lean into his touch. "For your safety _and_ mine."

Rules.

Right.

She could do rules. She was always good with rules—okay, maybe not _always_ but there had been a point in her life when she'd absolutely lived by them.

"Rules." She opened her eyes to look down at him. "Yes. Good idea."

Severus' fingers continued their ascent, moving under her breast and toying with the sheer band. His other hand moved to wrap around her hip, guiding her between his parted legs until her knees knocked against the couch.

"If at any time tonight you wish to stop _whatever_ is occurring—"

"Divaricate." The word slipped from her lips before she was even aware of its presence in her mind, and when she watched him cock a brow, fingers pausing just on her ribcage, she couldn't help the deep crimson that blossomed to life.

"It's my—" She cleared her throat. "It's my safeword." She shifted her weight between the balls of her feet, but didn't dare move from his grasp. "That's what you were asking for, right? Mine is divaricate."

For the first time she could remember, the corner of his lips lifted, just the hint of a smile peeking through his ever-stoic features. "Your safe word is divaricate?"

Suddenly, the logic behind her choice seemed flawed at best, and she couldn't help but wonder if the lightness of his tone was more in judgement than jest. "Yes. You're supposed to select something you'd never say otherwise and… Well, I think it's to say I would never use divaricate under normal circumstances."

His lips pressed together, erasing all hints of his smile and he nodded. "That is very clever Miss Lizbeth." His reply eased her fears, but it wasn't until his fingers continued across her skin that she allowed herself to relax.

"And yours?"

The hand at her hip curled, and he gently spun her, careful to make sure she didn't fall. Once she was facing away from him, his breath lingered across her lower back. "I normally opt for red, but in light of your choice… hrmm…"

She felt the brush of lips against her back, as his fingers found her spine and began their slow descent, vertebrae by vertebrae down her back, driving her ever closer to madness until they paused just at the estlastic band of her knickers.

"How about Somatotropin."

"Like the growth hormone?"

"Precisely." A dark chuckle ghosted across her skin. Suddenly, the warmth from his body was gone, but she could still feel his fingers at her back. "Is there anything that is off limits?"

"I… uh… I mean you've watched my show…"

The answer was pretty self-explanatory. No bodily fluids. No blood. No excessive pain. Absolutely no humiliation. She was pretty open minded, and although she wasn't into certain kinks—say feet—if that's what the customer wanted, she didn't mind obliging, as long as they were willing to pay.

"I am aware of your limits on camera, but I am trying to discern if you have any for tonight."

Her mind went blank.

When his finger hooked into the back of her knickers and he began to pull them down over the swell of her arse, she suddenly realised what he had in mind.

"No." Simple. Succinct. Just the way she'd come to know him.

He worked her knickers lower and lower until they rested on her thighs, just above her knees, and with a gentle pressure at her lower back, Hermione found herself bent over, her backside completely exposed.

Her legs trembled—in anticipation or anxiety, she'd never know. Placing her hands against her thighs, she dug her fingers into her skin in a feeble attempt to will her body to calm down.

His hands were on her, sliding up the back of her thighs, dancing along the seam between her arse and legs before his palms moved over her backside and splayed wide.

He kneaded each cheek almost reverently, as if thankful for the very presence of her body before him. Her eyes fluttered closed. The squeeze of his hands sent an electric shock down her spine that pooled between her thighs.

She shouldn't like this, she shouldn't _want_ this, but based on the way her teeth sank into her bottom lip and she leaned into his touch, she so clearly did.

And just when she'd assumed she got control of herself, just when she trusted her eyes to open and focus on the pristine marble flooring, she felt the brush of lips against her right cheek shortly followed by the sharp drag of teeth.

Her low whimper was followed by a soft utterance of his name, and she let her head fall forward, thick curls blocking her face as she rocked back into his touch.

He moved across the supple skin, kissing, and nibbling as he lavished each cheek with attention. Kneading, licking, and kissing until his nose pressed between the dimples at the small of her back and his lips found the cleft of her arse.

"Go into the bedroom and remove your brasserie." The words were spoken against her skin, slow and direct, making sure nothing would be missed in the delivery of his edic. "There you will find the book. I have marked where you left off last."

She knew this was coming, she _knew_ precisely what he liked, but it felt so jarring to have him touch her, work her body up until she was near begging for more and then to have him pull away.

With one final kiss at the base of her spine, his hands ran down her thighs, until his fingers hooked in the knickers still precariously hanging around her knees, and he tugged them down until they pooled at her feet.

Careful to not trip, she slipped out of the garment before slowly straightening from her bend. Her hands pushed her curls behind her ears as she moved across the suite, listening to his command, despite the pulsing heat that bloomed between her thighs, begging her to turn around and crawl into his lap.

Trembling fingers twisted around the doorknob and with a gentle push, she made her way into the suite's bedchambers. In the middle of the room sat a large poster bed, modern with just a hint of old elegance. White bedding adorned the furniture, draped beautifully in fabric that looked soft, even from her distance.

She left the door ajar, finding no purpose in closing it; he was likely to follow her shortly. As she closed the distance to the bed, she pulled her bralette off over her head, and sat it on the nightstand before claiming the edge of the bed.

Her hands ran over the comforter on either side of her hips as she looked around, taking in the posh room's fixtures and orienting herself in the suite as she willed her racing heartbeat to slow.

The fears she'd had about meeting up with him seemed so unfounded now. Although she couldn't be certain what was going to happen the rest of the evening, she could only hope it would involve him claiming her in this very bed.

It had been a while since she'd been with a partner. Sure, she showed her body on the webcam, and used toys and fingers to get herself off during those sessions—depending on how the tokens fell—but it wasn't the same as actually being intimate with someone.

With each passing second, the soft tick from the analog clock atop the mantle grew louder and louder.

Would he think she was good?

Did it _matter_ what he thought as long as she was paid?

Was this technically prostitution, even if she wanted it?

Just when she assumed he might have changed his mind, she heard the distant clink of porcelain. He must have been picking up their mess. Her breath caught in her throat as she strained towards the door, listening to the snap of his footsteps—waiting, praying, hoping he'd draw closer.

When his footfall gave way to his approach, Hermione plucked the book off the nightstand and hurried to recline back on the bed.

She kept her eyes downcast, focused on the book, fingers stroking the golden embossed edge of the pages, but the distinct creak of the door opening wider let her know precisely where he was.

"Are you ready?" The silken baritone cut over the ominous tick of the clock, and she peeked up through her lashes to find him standing at the edge of the bed, his hands tucked into his pockets.

He appeared casual, like she wasn't laid bare before him, like this was an everyday occurrence, and it was only then that a question flitted to the forefront of her mind.

_Had_ he done this before?

The selfish part of her mind told her no, she was different somehow; he found something in her, hidden beneath that farce of a personality she put on for her viewers.

But that pesky logical side knew that this wasn't true. He was a man of means—a bloody doctor, and he clearly had more money than he knew what to do with. He also appeared to have several years, if not decades on her, so to assume he hadn't played this little game with anyone else was beyond foolish.

_Was_ she ready?

Hermione nodded, forcing a smile on her painted lips. "Yes."

"Remember your safeword, Miss Lizbeth." Lifting a hand, he gestured towards her as an impish glint appeared in the darkness of his eyes. "You may begin."

Clearing her throat, she turned her attention to the leatherbound book in her lap. She opened to the page marked by a black ribbon, and began, as she always did, to read aloud. Taking time to enunciate each word precisely, knowing this kink was part auditory, part image.

"Speak truth, do you deceive yourself, or do you mean to deceive me? The difference between your discourse and actions, leaves in doubt which I am to give credit to. What shall I say to you then, when I even do not know what to think?"

As she moved down the page, she couldn't help but glance up to him, watching as he slowly uncuffed his sleeves before moving to unthread the buttons that held it closed.

"You seem to make a great merit of your last scene with the Presidente but what does that prove in support of your system, or against mine? I never certainly told you, your love for this woman was so violent as not be capable of deceiving her, or prevent you from enjoying every opportunity that appeared agreeable and easy to you."

She felt a heat creep down her neck and a flush crawl up her cheeks as she watched him divest himself of his shirt, exposing a surprisingly lithe form underneath. His alabaster chest was covered in a soft smattering of black hair that lessened to a thin trail beneath his navel. Her mouth grew dry, and her tongue suddenly felt thick around the words.

His steps were slow, like some sort of snake stalking its prey, kneeling on the end of the bed, and making his way towards her until her toes pressed against his thighs. Long fingers curled around her ankles and he gently parted her legs

Each stroke from his fingers was methodic, like he already knew her body, her wants, her needs, despite never having spent a single moment in her actual presence. Inch by excruciating inch, his fingers traveled up the inside of her legs, and when they reached her thighs, her speech began to falter.

She struggled to focus on the page, the words seemed to blur with every delicate stroke of his fingers. Soon, she found herself struggling to keep her place on the page. Her fingers curled around the edges of the book, holding it like it was a life preserver and she was shipwrecked in the middle of the ocean. One false move and she feared she would succumb to the choppy waters.

Parting her thighs farther, she sunk low against the pillows, her curls spilling out on either side of her head. When she felt his fingers brush against the sodden patch of cropped curls at the apex of her thighs, her eyes slammed closed and it was all she could do to remember to breathe.

The involuntary in and out was suddenly forgotten, lost in the sea that was swallowing her up. Her thighs trembled, pent up energy boiling over, and soon she felt the gentle pressure of his left hand curling around her high, holding her open as he brushed two fingers through her folds.

"Continue Miss Lizbeth."

A shaky breath combined with a whimper bubbled up her throat, born from incredulity that he thought it actually fucking possible that she could form coherent sentences while he did this do her, let alone _read._

She could sense the type of lover he was already. Giving. Attentive. But cruel with what he perceived as disobedience. As much as she wanted to see what type of punishment he doled out for his lovers that didn't listen, she couldn't bring herself to test her luck today. Not when she was so clearly enraptured with this mysterious man.

Opening her eyes, she took a steadying breath and began once more. Her voice no longer held even a hint of confidence, only need and breathy whimpers.

His fingers ran the length of her slit, taking his time as he coated them in her essence, before he gently probed her entrance and sank two long fingers deep inside.

She'd dreamt of those fingers for so long, lost to the beauty of his nimble digits, and now, knowing they were between her lewdly parted thighs, stroking the most intimate parts of her, well it was _almost_ too much.

" _Fuck."_ The curse slipped from her tongue and she let the book fall against her as she arched off the bed, breasts pushed towards the ceiling, losing herself in the feeling of his blissful rhythm. "Severus. Please."

She could hear him suck in his breath, evidently pleased with her plea. His fingers curled within her, twisting and turning, scissoring to fill the narrow passage of her cunt with a euphoric fullness that made her toes curl against the bedding.

"You're pussy is so pretty… much better in person." His growl was enough to send her reeling, though the increased tempo certainly didn't help. "Your little fingers can't do this for you, can they? Reach these places your body _needs_ … but I can."

" _Yes. Oh God, yes."_ Her hips rolled, desperate to have him deeper within her, to have him fill a need she wasn't fully aware of until she walked into that bloody bar earlier in the evening.

Her body sang for him, responding to the thrust of his fingers in kind. She felt that familiar tension low in her belly, twisting the coil tighter and tighter until the very act of breathing felt laboured and impossible.

The book slipped onto the mattress, the carefully marked page long forgotten to the bliss that rolled through her body with each wicked stroke of his fingers. "You've never come on camera, have you?"

There was no accusation or ire in his tone. No, the question was more of a statement, a fact that, despite the best facade she put on for her patrons, he clearly knew. Her eyes cracked open, and she looked down between her parted thighs to where he sat on tall knees, one hand still working between her thighs, the other stroking himself through his trousers.

All at once, the question was lost in the fog, her eyes focusing on the clear evidence of his desire for her. The rush of heat between her thighs turned into an inferno. He was big, even through his trousers she could tell he was far bigger than her previous partners, and the prospect of him replacing his fingers with his cock both frightened and excited her.

"Miss Lizbeth?"

"Hermione." Her eyes flickered up to his face, and she watched him cock a brow, trying to discern why she uttered the foriegn name. "M-my name… My name is Hermione."

His lips twitched, a wolvish smirk falling into place and he leaned forward, lifting his palm from his cock and pressing it low on her abdomen. "Tell me, _Hermione_ , do you come on camera?" He said her name like it was made for his tongue, like he'd spent years desperate to learn how to enunciate every syllable perfectly. She wanted him to whisper it again, and again, and again.

"No." Her breath caught in her throat, fists pulling at the comfort as she rocked under his fingers, the coil tightening faster with the pressure from his hands.

"But you are now, aren't you? You'll be a good girl and come for me."

" _Yes."_

"Say it. Say you'll be a good girl and come for me."

"I'll be— _Oh fuck_ , I'll be good. I'll be _so_ good." His hand rose, fingers slipping into her curls, holding them on the crown as her head rolled back against the blanket, her thighs trembling. "I-I'll come."

"That's it. I can feel you're right there, aren't you? Your pussy is trying so hard to hold my fingers in. Such a pretty little cunt, begging for me to fill it."

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, dampening the cry that ripped from her throat as the coil snapped. Her body quivered, mind emptying of all fears and doubts as she rode the tidal wave of bliss that swallowed her whole.

Her world ripped apart at the seams, fraying beyond repair and slowly knitting back together, until everything once again made sense. His name was like a prayer, slipping off her tongue and uttered into the universe like he was the deity she'd sought since her teenage years.

He didn't stop, dragging her orgasm out with decedent strokes of his fingers against her fluttering walls, and it wasn't until she reached between her thighs, and eased his fingers from her, that she finally begin the descent from her high.

Her heart raced, body limp, but far from lifeless as she pushed up onto her elbows, head lifting from the mattress . She looked up at him, doe eyed and flushed face in full post-orgasmic glory, and though she knew her make-up was likely ruined, and her curls a mess, she couldn't find an ounce of care left in her bones to put any thought to her appearance.

He was sitting back on his heels, dark eyes drinking her in. His hand rose, fingers that had just been buried deep inside her were pushing his fallen locks back, and when she did finally catch his gaze, that wolvish smirk curved wider.

He gestured to the fallen book. "You may continue."

Her hands trembled as she reached for the text, though she knew for certain it wasn't from anxiety. No, it was anticipation. The night was young, and she knew now the plans that he so clearly had for her were far more than she'd ever bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lovely aesthetic credit to [TriDogMom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDogMom/pseuds/TriDogMom)! thank you so much darling. :)
> 
> beta credit to [dreamsofdramione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione). she makes my words so much better. i would be lost without her.
> 
> and of course, thank you guys. i am beyond tickled that you are enjoying this kinky venture. one more chapter to go!
> 
> you can find me on [facebook](https://www.facebook.com/msmerlinfanfic) by looking up msmerlin eff. 
> 
> until next time. xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This Chapter is NSFW

Her body sang, pleasure reverberating down every limb until even her fingertips felt aflame.

" _Ohgod. Ohgod_." His hips slapped against her arse, the sharp sting, combined with the feeling of his cock filling her completely toed that line between pain and pleasure that made it hard to discern which was which. "P-Please Severus."

"Not… yet." His breath was labored, fingers digging sharply into her hips. She wasn't certain of much anymore, especially since everything she thought she'd known about this man had been turned upside down the moment she met him in the bar.

It had been hours, though truthfully she'd lost track of how many by her third orgasm, and the prospect of heading back home in a BlackCab once he'd had his fill of her company was completely erased from her mind.

How could she leave? She'd barely be able to fucking walk!

His hand moved over the sweat-slicked skin at her side to curl around her shoulder, using the leverage to put more force into his thrusts as he continued to drive himself deep within her aching body.

An incoherent babble of pleas and moans slipped up her throat, filling the room over the noise of his skin snapping against hers, and she clung to the ruined bedding as if it were her anchor to this world.

She was on the edge, toes curled around the cliff, body poised and ready to give into the pleasure he tore from her body. She fought back, eager to please her benefactor, but each rough thrust threatened to be her undoing.

"Plea— _Oh fuck!"_ Her thighs quivered with a particularly rough thrust. His cock slid deep inside her, and her voice lifted an octave as her face scrunched up. Her stomach tightened, bearing down to try and fight off the pulsating need to succumb to the pleasure that bloomed between her thighs.

In one fluid motion, Severus pulled her up, and perched her body his lap, sliding his arms around her middle to curl around her thighs and part her legs lewdly so she sat skewered on his cock. "This"—his hand moved her lower, fingertips dancing across the delicate skin that covered the junction between her thigh and pelvis before meeting her aching quim—" _this_ is mine."

Her arm curled around his neck, fingers sliding into the inky locks, desperately holding onto him as his fingers brushed through her sodden curls to rub against her swollen sex.

"Say it." He gave a shallow trust, fingertips tapping menacingly against where their bodies joined in a warning that a better woman would have been scared of.

She saw glimpses of the man all night. The way he pinned her wrists to the bed as he drove his cock into her, how he stuffed come-soaked fingers into her mouth, and had her gag on his manhood when he fucked her mouth.

Severus needed to dominate.

Perhaps not with ropes and handcuffs and floggers, but he wanted to possess her—mind, body, and spirit. The scariest part of it all was she was willing to let him.

She was willing to forgo her pride and her reservations, willing to forget all the logic that kept her life in line, and allow herself any pleasure this wicked man was willing to give.

"It's yours." Her voice was raw, gravely, throat hoarse from the moans and whimpers he'd plucked from her body over the last several hours. "M-my pussy… it's yours."

A dark chuckle tickled the sweat-soaked curls at the base of her neck, and a shiver akin to an electric shock ran down her spine. It was like she'd stuck her finger in a socket, the thrill—the promise of his ownership over her body—did funny things to the feminist soul inside her.

His fingers found her clit, swollen, needy, and he pressed it between the valley of his index and middle ring, beginning slow, tortuous circles as he moved in shallow thrusts.

From this angle, it felt as if he were in her stomach, his cock reaching depths inside her she wasn't even aware existed before tonight. She'd had her fair share of partners before Severus, but never had she experienced sex like _this._

So raw.

So vulnerable.

It was as if he already knew every inch of her body. Her likes and dislikes. Every touch was deliberate. Every utterance was scripture.

Her nails scrabbled at his scalp, toes curling as her moans once more turned to plea. The combination of gentle rocks of his hips and his wicked fingers brought her teetering on the edge once more.

She couldn't hold out much longer—she couldn't—

"Come."

Her world shattered, a rough scream ripping from her throat as she lost herself to the waves of bliss that she had fought off for what felt like an eternity.

Her body trembled, dissolving into a quivering mass, as her pussy fluttered around him, a renewed deluge of her essence coating his cock as she came. The drugging waves of her orgasm seemed relentless, twisting and turning her mind to mush as she lived in the moment of her bliss, only distantly aware of him finding his own end still buried deep inside her body.

She wasn't worried, she'd been on the pill since she was fifteen, and was diligent about taking it—neurotic even. But her hindbrain that had taken over hours ago cooed. The primal need to be full of not only him but his seed too bloomed to life.

He rubbed her stomach, long fingers streaking her essence across the skin, and she couldn't hear the words that he whispered into her shoulder, but the way he stroked her and the melodic cadence of his baritone made her preen under his affections.

He didn't withdraw himself from her body, but instead laid them down on the bed, his arms posessively curling around her, enveloping her in a warm embrace that felt like such a stark contrast to his aloof demeanor.

Had she been more alert, more coherent through her post-orgasmic bliss, she might have questioned the affections; she might have pressed him about his shower of praise, but her limbs were heavy, and the warmth of his body moulding to hers was far too great of a comfort to give up so frivolously.

She'd ask him about it later.

Perhaps in the morning—when the world would make sense once more and she didn't feel so bloody exhausted.

* * *

The intense ache between her thighs finally woke Hermione.

Sharp and fierce, it felt like a pulled muscle. For a singular moment, she couldn't understand the pain that radiated from her core, but like a slow blossoming flower, memories of the night before filtered back into her still foggy brain.

_Severus._

His hands on her skin.

His mouth on her cunt.

His fingers—his cock.

Filling her, bringing her to orgasm more times than she thought physically possible.

Ravishing her, worshipping her body.

Even through the ache, the memories of the night before brought an unbidden need that thrummed through her bloodstream. She cracked her eyes open, careful of the morning light streaming in through the curtains, and pushed herself up on her elbows to look around the room. No sounds alerted her to where he might be, but the smell of something savoury wafted into the bedroom.

"Severus?" Detangling her legs from the sheet, she winced as she climbed out of the bed. The muscles in her thighs sang, that painful lactic acid build-up plaguing nearly every muscle in her body.

She should stretch, maybe even take some Paracetamol, but first, breakfast was in order, right after finding Severus, of course.

She didn't know what she'd say or do, quite frankly. What _does_ one do after a sexual rendezvous? Under normal circumstances, they might make small talk or plans for future meeting ups, but this was far from normal.

He was paying her for this night, and she would be back on ChaturXXX within three days, even _with_ his five thousand pounds in her account.

Despite their rather unusual set of circumstances, she found herself drawn to him, wanting to see his reaction. Perhaps they could have another conversation over breakfast. Maybe she could learn more about him and…

The possibilities seemed endless yet woefully unobtainable. While he might be interested in her sexually, there had been zero indication he wanted anything beyond that.

And if he did… What would that mean for her job? Would he demand she give up camming? _Should_ she even give it up? Her window of opportunity to earn this money was rapidly disappearing as she aged, and she wanted to make the most of it while she still could. There was always time for her real career later—though she wasn't even entirely certain what that would be.

Pulling the sheet off the bed, she tucked it around her body, holding it with the press of her arms as she moved through the door from the bedroom into the suite's sitting area, searching for the handsome stranger who had given her a night to remember.

She expected him to be sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, some sort of periodical open in his lap as he drank his morning cuppa. She expected him to greet her indifferently and demand she eat.

But none of those would ever happen because as she looked around, she found herself completely and entirely alone.

The suite seemed larger in the light of day, and the crisp white modern decor seemed cold and clinical. A creep of disappointment trickled into her mind, and her lips pulled down as she moved farther into the room.

The small dining table he'd sat her at the night before now held a stainless cloche, the brushed metal shining ominously, even from across the room. She moved closer, and found a small white envelope beside the covered plate.

She lifted the cloche, finding a still-warm breakfast below. Egg whites with flecks of green—spinach?— and fresh fruit sat beside one another, paired with two pieces of toast and one plump sausage. It was far from a traditional English breakfast, which sounded heavenly after the night she'd had, but it would have to do.

Claiming the seat, she speared the sausage with the polished cutlery before opening up the envelope.

Sharp, jagged handwriting decorated the page inside. For a moment, she allowed herself to laugh at the fact that Severus, a physician, had poor penmanship. While nearly every other aspect she'd seen of him the night before was wholly unexpected, this one small thing seemed to be the exception. "Guess the stereotype is true."

_Hermione,_

_The room is reserved until midday, take your time leaving. Outside you will find a black town car waiting to take you home. The service has been paid for, do not worry, they will not divulge where you reside._

_\- Severus T. Snape_

She chewed thoughtfully on the end of the sausage, a painted finger tapping against the edge of the card, trying to read between the jagged words to try and find some sort of… _feeling_ attached to them.

The longer she stared, though, the more and more distant they seemed. The note wasn't like a word left for a lover, nor a budding romance. It was as succinct as the man who wrote it. Straight to the point. No frills. And absolutely no emotion.

Tossing the card on the table, Hermione sat the half eaten sausage down and opted to pick up a slice of toast before getting up. With no Severus to keep her company, she had little use for the suite. As nice as the shower looked the night before, without her normal hygiene products, she wasn't going to risk putting some shampoo in her hair that her curls would surely rebel against once dried.

Instead, she got dressed in the same clothing she wore the night before—walk of shame be damned. While she hoped new front desk personnel would be on staff, she was also sane enough to realise it didn't bloody matter. It wasn't like she was going to be booking rooms at this hotel anytime soon, not that she couldn't afford it, but what would be the point? With no boyfriend and no family, there was little reason for her to plan trips down to this part of London.

With her heels in one hand, clutch tucked under her arm, and toast in the other, Hermione made her way out of the hotel. The marble floor was cold beneath her bare feet, and she kept her eyes low, focused on the geometric patterns of the black and white flooring. She purposefully avoided the lingering eyes from other guests and hotel staff as she moved outside.

Though she held no shame over what she had done—what she _was_ —she knew drawing attention to herself would do her no good if she wanted to keep both her and the doctor out of the strong arm of the law.

The cold air greeted her, whipping around her legs, and just as she moved to the curb, a sleek black Mercedes rolled up in front of her.

"Miss Lizbeth?" The driver looked at her through the rolled down window, kind green eyes sparkling.

"Yes."

The driver moved quick, tossing a black chauffeur cap over untidy black hair before hastily rushing around the idling car to let her into the back seat.

Hermione stood dumbfounded, eyes flickering between the young driver and the opened door hesitantly. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that Severus has actually paid for her ride home.

"You can… get in." The chauffeur gestured to the back side, thick browns lifting.

"Oh… yeah I… uh…" Shifting her weight between her feet, Hermione lifted the half-eaten toast with a sheepish grin. "Let me find a bin."

"You can finish it inside—if you'd like."

"I can?"

The chauffeur laughed, a boyish grin spreading across his plush lips. "You can do whatever you wish, Miss. You're the client." He said it like it was so painfully obvious, which, frankly, it was, but still, the casual obviousness of her being able to eat buttered toast, and likely leave an ungodly amount of crumbs in the backseat of a car that probably cost more than she'd ever seen—well, it seemed odd.

"Right. Duh. Of course." Her cheeks flushed pink as she slipped into the backseat, sliding across the polished leather to claim a space.

The chauffeur took her address, plugging it into a GPS system built into the dash, and off they went. Soft orchestral music played through the speakers, guiding the car through the mid-morning London traffic.

With her toast finished, and the crumbs brushed to the floorboards, Hermione opened her clutch to fish out her mobile, intent on texting Seamus and Luna to tell them she was 1) alive, and 2) safely on her way home.

But as she unlocked her screen, a notification from ChaturXXX caught her attention.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she opened the app, unsurprised to see her tokens having substantially risen over the course of the last twenty-four hours. Though, what gave her pause was not the payment—Severus had promised it was already awaiting her. No, it was the inbox notification.

She rarely received messages, having long ago figured out it was best to set her account to only receive messages from premium account holders. Few opted to pay the actual coin for a premium account, which meant the influx of spammed messages was substantially lower.

Call it intuition or just dumb luck, either way, Hermione already knew the name that would be on the missive. With a heavy breath, she clicked into her inbox, fully prepared to read some equally succinct message about no longer needing any future services.

He'd gotten what he wanted, right?

One night with her—one where she so easily gave up her body, and worse, personal details about herself.

She could blame him. She could claim that his decedent tongue and wicked words bewitched her into forgetting the boundaries she tried to lay, but the truth was much simpler. S

She was weak.

He'd intrigued her, probably as much as she did him, and she'd allowed herself to fall prey to the organ that beat loudly within her chest. It was the one bloody thing she could never reason with.

> **To: EmmaLizabeth79  
>  From: Sapiophile60**
> 
> **Subject: Offer**
> 
> **Message:**
> 
> **Hermione,**
> 
> **If you are available, I would be interested in your company next Friday. I have found myself in possession of two season tickets to the London Symphony Orchestra. Under normal circumstances, I gift them to my receptionist, but I think it is about time I use them myself.**
> 
> **If you think this would be an appropriate and enjoyable use of your free time, please respond in kind.**
> 
> **Regards,**
> 
> **Severus. T. Snape**

She read his message once… twice… three times over, not trusting her eyes and her mind to process his words. Was he asking her out— _on a date?_

No monetary exchange was mentioned, no hidden clues that might suggest there would be payment involved woven into his words.

No, this was as straightforward as everything else with him had been.

He was interested in her _company_ beyond the bedroom.

He was interested in _her._

An incredulous laugh bubbled up her throat and she pressed her fingers into her lips to suppress the growing grin. Butterflies, pesky and only vaguely foreign, awoke from their cocoons in the pit of her stomach, bursting to life.

> **To: Sapiophile60  
>  From: EmmaLizbeth79**
> 
> **Subject: Re: Offer**
> 
> **Message:**
> 
> **That sounds amazing. I have never been to the Symphony before and look forward to the experience, as well as your company.**
> 
> **Speaking of offers, if you are interested, perhaps instead of my regular show on Tuesday we could Skype instead?**
> 
> **Yours,**
> 
> **Hermione**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aesthetic credit to my amazing beta [dreamsofdramione!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione)
> 
> speaking of my beta, please go check out her latest piece with [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger), a Panville that is _//chef's kiss_ AMAZING! [The 13th Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693745/chapters/59679526).
> 
> thank you for all your comments, reviews and kudos. this was such a fun little ficlet to write and I am pleased as punch you all like it. thanks to [Sevmione Society](https://www.facebook.com/groups/686917672072037/) for putting up these pictures to inspire us, and of course, thanks [LumosLyra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosLyra/pseuds/LumosLyra) for making the aesthetic that inspired this. 
> 
> you can find me on [facebook](https://www.facebook.com/msmerlinfanfic). 
> 
> until next time. xx


End file.
